8th February 2020

Antigua is one of the smaller Leeward Islands, and it was here, in its capital, St. John’s, that we berthed alongside three other large cruise ships, just as we sat down to breakfast.

Columbus named the island Santa María la Antigua as he sailed past in 1493, but it has been under British control since 1624, thanks to the strong fortifications built to defend it. Antigua, along with Barbuda, gained independence in 1981.

Cruise ships moor right at the city’s doorstep, making it just a short walk along the jetty to the welcoming sounds of a Caribbean steel drum band and a throng of cheerful taxi drivers and street hawkers, all eager to chat and hopefully do some business. While touring these islands, we have yet to encounter the persistent behaviour often exhibited by street traders in many Middle Eastern countries, where they follow and pester you for hundreds of metres before realising you are not interested.

We hadn’t planned our day particularly well, I hadn’t downloaded a map of the city before leaving the ship, and the Tourist Information kiosk on the dock didn’t have any available. We wandered rather aimlessly through the streets around the harbour, soaking up the ambience, visiting the indoor and outdoor markets, taking a few photos, and admiring a rather splendid and colourful statue of a local dignitary.

It was at this point that I realised I had left my wallet in the cabin safe, effectively scuppering any plans we might have eventually made for the rest of the day. With no other option, I had to return to the ship. Sue waited for me in the shade of a tree on the dockside, watching the other (better-prepared) passengers stream past. She struck up a lengthy conversation with Ken and Chris, explaining why I had gone back. Ken, of course, took great satisfaction in relaying this piece of information to me when I met him at the bottom of the gangplank on my return.

On board, I successfully retrieved my wallet, downloaded a map of the island, and revisited our notes detailing what we had planned for the day, written down months ago and promptly forgotten. Back on the dock, we negotiated with a taxi driver to take us to Fort James. The journey took around half an hour, and he dropped us off outside a small beach bar. When I asked where the fort was, he simply replied that the whole area was called Fort James. Had we made a planning error? Regardless, we agreed that he would return to pick us up at 11:30 am.

Our driver left us standing beside a beautiful, secluded beach with powdery soft white sand, a stunning blue sea, and a few sunbathers, but no visible fort! Seeking shade in the bar, we sat down and checked the map on my phone, soon spotting the fort about 300 metres away at one end of the beach. Stripping down to the bare essentials, we set off. To avoid the tiring trudge through loose, hot sand, we walked along the narrow, firmer strip by the water’s edge, where the waves lapped rhythmically over our bare feet, wonderfully cooling, Robinson Crusoe-esque experience.

On our way to the fort, we picked up a companion, a friendly brown dog with a lovely nature, eager for head pats and ear scratches. To my surprise, Sue gave him a good fuss as well (perhaps the Mia/Harry effect at work). He trotted happily alongside us all the way to the fort before disappearing, likely in search of a fresh pair of walking ear-fondlers heading back to the bar.

Upon arrival, we explored what turned out to be a rather dilapidated collection of structures, long overdue for some TLC. Perched in a commanding position at the seaward entrance to St. John’s Harbour, it must once have been an impressive stronghold. Now, however, decades of neglect had left it a hazardous jumble of rotting wood, cracked walls, and sheer drops where guardrails had once stood, now perilously rusty and rickety. The most intact building, possibly an old accommodation block, bore faded signage suggesting it had once been repurposed as a restaurant. These days, however, the only dishes it could offer would be an extensive menu of crumbles.

Confusingly, a battery of cannons was still mounted in a neat line along the highest wall, aimed seaward as if ready for battle. They were in remarkably good condition, making for an excellent photo, but why such care over these relics of war while the very structure they were meant to defend had been left to crumble?

As we pondered this, a pair of pelicans appeared overhead, effortlessly riding the updraft of sea air, hovering motionless above the battery. Seizing the moment, I fired off a round of photos, eager to capture the scene. However, in my excitement, I had completely forgotten that my camera was still set to panoramic mode. Yet another perfect shot, and another National Geographic-worthy opportunity, missed!

Leaving the fort to its slow decline, we retraced our steps along the shoreline, dipping our toes in the sea all the way back to our drop-off point. From there, we continued walking to the opposite end of the beach, where the sand gave way to a series of small sandstone cliffs.

We couldn’t linger for long, though; true to his word, our driver was waiting at the agreed time. He swiftly whisked us back to the Magellan, just in time for lunch.

In the afternoon, our GPS map guided us to the small Antigua Museum, just a few busy streets away from the ship. The exhibits were an eclectic mix, ranging from ancient artefacts unearthed in recent archaeological digs to more modern relics of the island’s sugarcane industry. A large display was dedicated to Antigua’s most famous cricketer, Viv Richards, complete with the bat he used to score the fastest-ever Test match century.

What truly caught my interest, however, was a hefty book for sale in the museum’s tiny shop. It contained fascinating accounts of the people and events from the early days of the sugar plantations. I was almost tempted to buy it, but at $50, it seemed a bit steep for a memory of a single-day visit. Perhaps if I return for a longer stay (and we thought we might), it would make a delightful read under the shade of a tree beside a coral-fringed beach.

A few streets away stood the city’s Cathedral of St. John the Divine, an imposing structure easily visible from miles out to sea. Its exterior bore the marks of age and long periods of neglect, though encouragingly, a couple of workers were busy mixing concrete, likely to repair the cracked brickwork.

Inside, however, was a different story. The walls were beautifully clad in light-coloured wood, and though largely unadorned apart from some simple carvings, the effect was elegant and serene. The only real touch of grandeur was a large chandelier in the central nave, which, at that moment, was being painstakingly polished by two gentlemen perched rather precariously on a rickety scaffold, unfortunately spoiling any attempted photograph of the aisle.

Despite this, I could imagine the cathedral being a very comfortable place to worship, both in seating and in spirit.

Outside, most of the graves in the adjoining cemetery bore English names and dated back to the 1700s, many inscribed with brief yet poignant accounts of their hopes and histories. I would have liked to spend more time here, delving deeper into these intriguing snapshots of lives long past.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the streets at length, browsing countless shops and street stalls, yet buying nothing! I was tempted by a striking painting of three pelicans, but it would have been a poor substitute for the idyllic photo that so nearly made it into a prestigious photography magazine. Sue, however, dismissed the idea outright, declaring that their eyes were far too spooky to grace the walls of Willow Bank; she has no soul!

Later that afternoon, all four cruise ships sailed away into the sunset, leaving the inhabitants of St. John’s to enjoy a little peace and quiet, no doubt a little richer for our visit. I like Antigua; it’s a friendly, bustling island with enough beaches to satisfy even the most dedicated sun worshippers and plenty of other distractions for the more active and adventurous.